


A Metaphoric Step Forward

by imorca



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Romance if you squint, Self-Doubt, pre-finale season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9716972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imorca/pseuds/imorca
Summary: Teresa Lisbon reflects on the kind of threat Patrick Jane may pose to her. A thoughtful rather than frustrated interpretation of our favorite CBI agent. Suggested Jisbon.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first fanfic ever. In fact, my first attempt at fiction of any kind ever. I have interpreted Lisbon as more serious than most do, but I don't believe she's out of character. Rating is probably too high, but better to be safe. This would be set at some point prior to the finale in Season 1. Originally posted on ff.net on June 4, 2009.
> 
> Disclaimer: Copyright for The Mentalist belongs to CBS, et al. My writing belongs to me, as do errors.

Teresa Lisbon turned on the water, cooler than her normal temperature. The late September heat that Sacramento weekend had surprised them all, and had sapped her patience reserves. She let herself feel just a bit of self-serving accomplishment that she had not allowed her frayed nerves to show. She shrugged her wilted shirt from her shoulders into the hamper, and slid off her damp bra. Her slacks and underwear quickly followed, then she stepped into the shower. She shivered delightedly at the coolness, and was momentarily overcome with a wave of goosebumps. She smiled to herself as she reached for the soap. As she lathered the citrus-scented bar, she turned and allowed the sheets of water to run down her spine. As she put down the soap and transferred the lather to her body, she smiled again, allowing herself a self-indulgent purr as the suds coupled with the sensitivity of her skin created a delicious sensation as she ran her hand up from her waist, past her ribs, and over her nipples. For just a flash, she saw Patrick Jane's twinkling blue eyes on the back of her eyelids. And for the first time, or maybe it wasn't, she didn't push the image away. She connected those blue eyes to her fingertips, and let them wander as she continued to wash away the stress and film of the day: behind her knees, down to her ankles, up her thighs, between her lips, up over her hips…

She wondered, briefly, if he had ever done the same, imagining his eyes connected to her fingertips. Maybe that was how he did what he did, visualizing in ways that most people would never allow themselves to. Or, she thought as she arched her neck and wet her hair, perhaps he just didn't feel any shame or guilt for it, the kind she felt sneaking into the back of her mind already. Without a censor, she knew that she would have long ago said a word or made a gesture that would have clarified the mixed signals she knew she sent. Those mixed signals, her careful obfuscation, were all she had to keep the former psychic at bay. She squeezed the cinnamon infused shampoo into her palms, and began to slowly circle them through her dark hair. She had caught him watching, just a few times, when he didn't realize it. She knew he had had to cultivate distractions and obfuscations himself as a performer. Did he do it now just for fun, out of habit, to protect himself, or for a darker reasons? Perhaps to protect others from himself?

She followed the rinse of the shampoo with a conditioning treatment, and turned up the temperature of the water. The coolness that had been so welcome minutes before was starting to chill her. Jane was like that, too – able to induce a feeling both thrilling and threatening within a flash. The threat wasn't something she exactly understood. It wasn't physical. Cho, Rigsby, and number of other agents or suspects, even average persons they passed on the street could cause more physical damage. It was most certainly psychological. But his pseudo psychic tricks and the hypnotism were most of his arsenal, and there wasn't anything harmful he could do to an unwilling subject. He'd made that claim time and again. So, where did the threat come from?

She turned off the faucet, pulled back the curtain, and stepped out onto the bathmat. She grabbed the towel and began to dry herself thoroughly. She wasn't one for ridiculously thick towels. They typically slipped through her small hands and weren't that absorbent. She preferred thinner towels that gave her more control, a better sense of where they had been soaked through. As she finished drying, she wrapped the towel around her hair and padded to her bedroom. She cracked a smile, thinking how much it would amuse Jane to know she walked around her apartment naked. Hell, he probably already knew. No, guessed, she corrected herself.

She pulled open a drawer and chose fresh underclothes. She smiled again. What kind of underwear would Jane predict for her? Would he expect serviceable cottons, fitting of a no-nonsense police officer? Or, would he expect the cliché lacy nothings needed by a woman in "authority," in a "man's job," so that she could "keep" her "femininity"? About 3 months after he began consulting at CBI, she knew he had managed to break into her locker and check through her extra clothes and gym bag. Fortunately she'd been expecting as much, and his curiosity was not satisfied. She dressed quickly, choosing yoga pants and a tank for her evening alone. She suspected that he would eventually find a reason to make his way through her apartment, though she didn't believe he had yet. Once he had she probably couldn't hide from him. There was too much of her here. She sighed. If he ever made it this far, she would not be able to keep him off balance. There would be too much information available.

Feet bare and hair pulled up in a quick pony, Teresa headed downstairs to the kitchen. She wondered if there was anything left in the house to eat. The fridge was empty with exception of skim chocolate milk and a bit of sharp cheddar cheese. She found a few slices of bread, cereal, and a can of peaches in the cupboard. Groceries, definitely, on Saturday. She took her motley collection of food to the living room and spread it out on the coffee table. She flipped on her DVD player, and resumed the episode she'd been watching. She was glad for the trend to release TV shows on DVD, since she'd never be home on a regular enough schedule to see one otherwise. As she munched and lost herself to the mindless dialogue, she returned to the unsettling thought of Jane's threat. He could certainly embarrass her, and probably hurt her feelings with that same information if he chose. But was that threatening? It might be surprising, and unsettling, but any number of perps they had collared could accomplish much worse. They certainly inspired clean, hard fear in her, an emotional sharpening that made her more wary and better able to do her job. What she felt with Jane was dis-abling.

Yes, that was the threat. He was disabling. To her. She shook her head, tuning the television out completely and letting her spoon drop to the bowl. He used his attention to detail equally for the case and for his own amusement. And she couldn't trust that he would turn off his self-interest in order to serve their shared interest. But still…why should that matter, if all she risked was embarrassment? It shouldn't. Because embarrassment wasn't all she risked. She risked being distracted from the emotional tools she used with suspects because of the emotional barriers she had to erect with Jane. Doing his job, at least the way he did it now, compromised her ability to do her job. So why did she feel the need to erect barriers with him?

The more she hid, the harder he tried to find things. So, if what she needed was emotional clarity, why not be clear with him? If the obscurity drove him, why keeps the game going? Was she going in circles? Where had this started? She wanted to keep Jane at bay. She sent him mixed messages in order to do so. The messages obscured…what? Her true self. That's what he'd find if he came to her apartment. And what was her true self?

Yes. What was that?

Was it so bad that her father was a drunk? Jane already knew that. It was the story of many people. Was it so bad that her mother had died when she was young, and that she had grown up with limited influence from women? Jane already knew that. It was the story of many people. Was it so bad that she wasn't involved with anyone? Jane already knew that. It was the story of many people. Was it that she was lonely? Jane suspected that, but maybe he didn't know. It was the story of many people. It was probably even Jane's story. Why should she care if he knew? How would it take something away from her? Everyone needed people. Why shouldn't she? Or was it that…

That…she feared that nobody needed her. Or that they only needed her for the practical skills she brought to her job. A job other people did. Teresa stood slowly and gathered the remains of her makeshift meal. She was afraid that her skills were not enough, that there was nothing uniquely, irreplaceably, singularly _her_ that anyone needed. She had put the items away without noticing, and now stood still at the kitchen counter. She could feel the cold tile on her bare feet, and noticed that the evening light had turned her hands orange where it fell from her window across them. She heard a car horn honk in the distance, and the click as her furnace turned over, catching up with the cooling evening air. She had always wanted to be judged by her abilities, not by her looks or whatever it was that the brainless women she watched in bars on the weekends were judged by. But, as she had learned when she was a track runner in high school, there will always be someone better than you on any given day. You could never be the best all the time. And if that's what you were judged on, what was left on the days (which meant almost every day) when you weren't the best? She felt empty, hollow.

Is that what she thought Jane would see? That she had nothing to offer but her skills, considerable though they may be? Was she threatened because Jane was better at the job than she was? Was he a threat because he, more than anyone else, would be able to see exactly how thin her worth was? She was shaky, and to her surprise her eyes stung with tears. She was a lead agent. She had the trust of a team. She had brothers and their families that she cared about. She had friends. Where had this come from? And why did Jane inspire this in her? Was this what threatened her whenever he was involved? And how was it related to her little fantasy in the shower? It was an unsolvable contradiction. She would hate it if Jane wanted her for a fantasy like that, because she wanted to be considered on her merits. And though he teased her, he was still committed to another woman, another life. She had conceded long ago that he couldn't want her on any other basis. But… at the same time that seemed to be _exactly_ what shewanted: to be the object of his fantasy.

She wandered back through the living room, switching off the television. Suddenly, and with purpose, she strode to the front door and stepped into her shoes. Grabbing her keys, she slipped out and locked the door behind her. Suddenly she was running, but she didn't really feel it. The sun had descended half behind the horizon, and had set the clouds on fire. In high school she had been a middle-distance runner, qualifying for the California state meet in the quarter and half mile. She had dominated local meets, but never gotten past the semi-finals when it really mattered. In college she had been recruited to run longer distances, topping out at the 5000. She had regularly done well, but never been a top contender at the national level. She had done a lot of thinking, studying, grieving, and dreaming as she placed one foot in front of the other. She still did her best at those things on the run. She had put together evidence and made useful advances in cases in just that way.

Jane blamed himself for the deaths of his wife and child. How strange was it that he never called them by their names, but only by their roles? He claimed to live only for revenge, and to believe his life was worth less than his revenge. Was he arrogant – did he love himself too much? Did he hate himself for his arrogance – isn't that what got his family killed? He still wore his wedding ring, but flirted with women in a way that broadcasted egotism. What was he? Who was he? Was there anything behind the façade? He was so deeply angry when confronted by Van Pelt's faith, and by other psychic's claims of authenticity. He hated what he had been and those even those who had believed him. He hated fraud. He was constantly trying to expose the emptiness behind the show.

She stopped. As she came back into her body she felt her heart pounding, and her lungs burning. She bent double, hands on hips, sweat drops plopping from her forehead and chin onto the sidewalk. She had obviously been keeping a bruising pace, and her knees would be making her pay tomorrow. Fraud. Patrick Jane exposed fraud. She gasped for breath in more than one way as the realization hit her. She suspected that she was a fraud. The threat was that Jane would expose her for what she was: a good detective. Nothing more. Not a great detective. Not a special human being. Not a mysterious and enigmatic lover, just waiting for the right man to bring out her hidden potential. Just a good detective. Not deserving of her position. Not deserving of his respect. With nothing to inspire anything else from him. And… a fraud for wanting to be an object of desire at the same time she would break the arm of anyone who used her in that way.

Teresa looked carefully around trying to get her bearings. She wasn't exactly sure what route she had taken. She started out at a slow jog again, wary of the way a quick stop would leave her the next day. At the end of the block she checked out the street signs. She had come nearly 5 miles, putting her within about a mile of CBI headquarters. She decided to make her way there to cool down, and call a cab home from her office. Mentally she kicked herself for not planning ahead. It had been nearly 2 months since she'd run without a plan. That had been after a particularly difficult interrogation. The sun had completely disappeared and the streetlights were coming on. She shivered a bit. Had she been planning ahead, she would have brought a jacket. As it stood she was in her tank with quickly cooling perspiration dripping down her back. So much for the shower earlier. She rounded the corner and stopped at the CBI checkpoint. She flashed the ID on her keys to the security guard who waved her through. She swiped the card as she approached the door, and punched the elevator button for her floor.

As she stepped off the elevator at her floor she was only marginally surprised to see a desk lamp on by the couch. She had known that Jane might be there, as he often was. His eyes were closed, and whether he was asleep or not, she didn't feel up to finding out. She hoped she could be in and away before he noticed. She walked efficiently to her office, opened the door and stepped quickly and quietly to her phone. She dialed the cab company by memory, and ordered a pick up. Within seconds she was back at the door, locking it once again. As she turned toward the elevator, she saw that Jane was now standing at the elevator looking as if he'd been waiting for her impatiently. He'd pulled himself together into his rumpled, three-piece standard.

"Agent Lisbon," he said, his smile curving mischievously. "You appear to have been working out late this evening."

Why was her first instinct always to spar with him? To hide? She didn't want to play that game. She was what she was. It was the hiding that made her a fraud. She braced herself. She suspected her facial expression looked a bit nauseous.

"I had some thinking to do. I think better when I run. How about you? Were you dealing with a particularly difficult puzzle on your couch this evening?" She even managed to smile back, though her heart was hardly in it.

His left eyebrow contracted just slightly, and he shifted the angle of his eyes at her. "It must have been quite a problem. You still sound winded. I suspect it wasn't a run you had expected to take. It… snuck up on you, surprised you? Made you… uncomfortable. Would you like to talk about it?" Again, that smile. And a cock of his head, as if looking at her from another position would reveal something else.

Teresa tightened a muscle in her jaw. "No, I hadn't expected to go running, and I hadn't expected to end up here." She paused. The only way not to be a fraud was not to mislead him…or, she had to admit, herself. She mentally squared her shoulders and took a metaphoric step forward. "I was thinking about my job performance, and wondering what was getting in the way lately. I haven't felt confident in a while, and I was trying to track it down." She couldn't look at him. Being that honest was enough. He didn't deserve her eyes as well.

There was a moment of hesitation. "Oh. Well. That's quite a surprise. I, I thought we did very well this past week, especially. We closed fast." He chuckled, almost awkwardly. "If it hadn't been so hot we would have been able to enjoy our usual pizza. Maybe we should have a plan for ice cream as a backup?" His voice sounded off his assured tone, stumbling slightly and false in its cock-sureness. Teresa felt she could look at him.

"What was occupying you thoughts tonight?" she asked.

"Oh, you know. Just… trying to sleep." There was sadness in his voice. She had heard it before.

"So…you're leaving now, though?"

"Well, I thought I'd give you a ride home if you need one."

"Oh. No, I just called a taxi. But, thanks though."

They stood in silence for several seconds until the elevator doors opened. Teresa got on, and was surprised when Jane joined her. "I'll just walk you to your taxi, if that's ok?" he said.

"Oh, sure, thanks."

They rode down, stepped out, and strode away from the building and across of the grounds to the street. Teresa was always surprised at how the city was never silent, even when it was silent. She crossed her arms and chaffed her biceps to guard against the cooling air.

They hadn't said anything since getting on the elevator. It was hard not to fill that space. Especially when she knew how Jane might make assumptions into the silence. But, if she were to speak what would she say? Nothing real. Nothing new. Nothing she wanted for herself, and nothing that she was ready, yet, to give him. She could tell he was watching her, and she finally turned to look at him. Jane's face was neutral, but his muscles appeared taut. She couldn't help herself. She looked closely at his eyes. As she looked she asked herself…him… what am I to Patrick Jane? What is Patrick Jane to me?

"Why would you worry about your job performance, Lisbon? You are the center of the team with the best close rate in the CBI. You have trained a dozen of the next-best agents, you have the respect of a state full of officers, and the justifiable fear of a state full of criminals. You are the real deal." His voice rang with certainty. Teresa could imagine how he'd made people believe when he was a charlatan.

"Jane, we close cases because of you, and I don't pretend it's otherwise." She sighed and looked away. "Sometimes I worry about my job because…well, because… I worry… that it's all I am. Those are bad days. And…I worry that if you weren't with us… that I wouldn't even be able to claim that." She was speaking very quietly. But she was speaking. She could not bear to reveal her eyes. She wasn't quite ready for that yet. She was relieved to see the taxi pulling up. She quickly reached for the door and slipped in.

Before she could close the door, Jane grasped it firmly and leaned over. "Lisbon." He waited. She refused to look at him. "Teresa." Still he waited. She felt his hand on her arm and she finally looked at him. His eyes were serious, darkened under his contracted brows. Normally Teresa thought he was a bit too handsome to be believable, the kind of man you couldn't trust because he'd gotten his own way too often with women. But in the shifting twilight, leaning close with that expression, his hand warm on her chilled arm, she was mesmerized. And for the first time, really the first time, she didn't back away from him or her response.

"You are your job. We all are, and I don't think it's honest or useful to pretend otherwise. Why do you think I became so… serious about my job with CBI after…?" He let the sentence die. "That's part of what makes you special, but that's not all of it. I catch glimpses of it once in a while." He looked a bit sheepish. "This is a little hard for me to admit, but I can't quite name it yet. It's the thing that has convinced Cho he should take a bullet for you. It's the thing that gets Minelli to trust you past his better judgment. It's the thing that Rigsby will use as a comparative measure for every woman he will ever date. It's the thing that inspires Van Pelt to imitate your interrogation techniques just as much as your joke telling technique. And it's the reason why I…well, why I think I might… think twice before…" He let the sentence die again.

He looked in her eyes, and she almost thought she could hear him swallow. Thankfully he didn't add his notorious grin. He seemed to understand that it would be a mistake. He let go of her arm, stepped back, and closed the cab door. She was honestly sorry he had. She didn't stop herself from turning to look back at him as the taxi pulled away. He stood at the curb with his hands in his pockets until her line of sight was broken.


End file.
